Nightmare Mosaic

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I woke up in the Korean South.
Weeping women and kids everywhere.
Spirits of chaos corrupted calm country,
and, of course,
seething soldiers were there.
I saw bullet holes
ending lives, freeing souls,
who floated upwards
through smoke-sullied air.
And I saw the guns and jeeps and tents—
no peace,
only snares
and hate glares.
Then I saw the white of the eye
from the guy
who I called my enemy.
The horse he rode
was one of a row,
and they all carried
arrows and slings.
The calendar promised, “1951,”
but these were warriors
from days of old.
They shot at me fiercely
and very nearly pierced me—
hit my arm,
and it hurt
when I woke!
Now—
Before waking, I hid,
and I peered from the church,
a basement from my youth,
but the bricks crumbled down,
and all I heard was the sound
of Arthur's drums
beating cold and uncouth.
Well, Ben and Bee were on the sad scene,
burning the red, white, and blue,
as Betsy Ross
and the old scribe Joss
shed blood
on their loveseat for two.
I made a quick sprint
to the Slumber Soft Woods,
where cowards drag
damsels they’ve drugged.
It was creepy and cold,
and I had no clothes.
I didn't care,
just smiled
and then shrugged.
His breathing was ragged;
he ran, jostled jagged.
He knew he wasn’t alone.
I could smell his fraught fear,
a faint hint of beer,
and his cheap synthetic cologne.
I took my knife
and started to trace
the lines that he made
on white ground.
When he would die
and where he would lie,
we would know only
when he’d been found.
His pants became wet
when his crooked eye caught
the gleam
of the blood-stained edge.
I tasted his blood,
but he tasted mud.
I gouged him.
He grasped for a ledge,
but nothing was there.
His claw clasped the air,
but fell torn—
tattered on a nearby hedge.
I stuck him again,
sunk my blade deep within,
followed through
with my vengeance-filled pledge.
And the hell of it is,
I felt a bit sad
as his blood-curdling shriek
filled the skies.
So I thought of the girls
that he hurt in the world
and looked down
to watch his ass die.
But ever since,
life just ain't been the same.
I burn with this burden of shame.
It rattles around
in my hollowed-out chest.
But I did the right thing—
at least in my brain.
The sun came rising.
I cowered in dark.
The brightness burned
my pale skin.
I wondered what the hell it was—
this creature who etched
flesh with sharp sin!
My eyes glimmered gold,
a void chilled my soul,
the light outside
turned azure blue.
In the blink of an eye,
I was in a disguise:
black billowing hair,
long, askew.
I watched idiot youths
stealing buggies, amused
by the frowns
of my deadest of friends.
None recognized
we were them—
just arrived
at a surlier, pained
point-of-view.
But who gives a fuck?
Love was lost.
We were stuck.
For the first time,
I thought this should end.
I’d warn the us of the past,
make the present fade fast,
but I couldn’t find
a pigeon to send.
I was drivin'
for some pizza place,
and I was out on a job,
when Ms. Purple Cloud
parted her shroud,
and God began to sob.
So I bowed my head,
with wipers flipped on,
so my vision would grow
somewhat clear.
She was lying there—
a dear bodiless Deer
on a Ferry Road
named for the Wares.
She sang a song
composed just for my ears
as her brain blood poured
down the flood drain.
It was a sad tale
of a life lived—soft, stale;
grazing grass and regret
all her days.
That horror I heard
made me squeamish;
I squirmed,
and my eyes fell
under a gaze.
My throat knotted,
mouth dried,
the wet crept
from my eyes
for my sin
of waiting too late.